Pirate of the Apocalypse
by CaptainEmo
Summary: Oneshot. Crowley runs into an old friend. Savvy?


_DISCLAIMER: I neither own nor pwn anything even moderately related to _Good Omens_ or_ PotC _(except for a DVD and a book, obvo)._

_A/N: This is the result of a writing exercise I did yesterday at a writing group; the things we had to include were Jack Sparrow in a tutu, someone known as the "Cake Strangler," a medieval torture chamber, and a fight between angels and demons. So, naturally, I thought of good ol' Aziraphale and Crowley. Hope that clarifies some things._

The place was destroyed. The fight had, unsurprisingly, turned into a bloody massacre; it _was_ the Apocalypse. The real Apocalypse this time.

And Crowley, for one, found it fitting that he should end up in an actual torture chamber for the main event. Fit his sense of poetic justice, it did. Anthony J. Crowley was not one to readily admit he possessed a sense of anything poetic, but he figured he might as well come clean. Since it was the End, and all.

Someone was hovering behind him, he could feel it. He inhaled sharply and swiveled around, clashing swords with someone who looked oddly familiar. "Do I... know you?" he shouted over the din.

The man simply shifted his flaming sword; from behind a body fell against him, brushing his back. He stumbled a few steps closer to the demon.

At this distance the resemblance was striking, unmistakable, and Crowley boggled. "Jack? Captain Jack _Sparrow_! It's Anthony Crowley! You know, I used to be Davy's attorney -- I wrote your contract." Then something struck him. "Didn't expect you to be working for the other side," he continued. "Just assumed you'd be with us, not Up There." He jerked his head heavenward, then paused. "Why are you... Why are you in a tutu?"

The man let out a sigh, then swung his sword again. Crowley hadn't realized the man was so adept with a blade; when he had known Sparrow, the man had spent more time yanking out rum bottles than weapons. But then again, reasoned the demon, Jack was in a frilly pink ballerina costume. Clearly, things had changed.

"Hello, Crowley," the man said.

Crowley started. That was definitely _not_ the right voice. It reminded one of tea-cakes and flannel pajamas. Things may change, but not that much. "_Aziraphale_?"

"Yes, hello."

In the few years since they had seen each other -- namely, since Crowley had moved to Los Angeles (1) -- he had wondered on occasion whatever had happened to Aziraphale, but never really knew. Now, it seemed, he had his answer. "How've you been, angel?"

"Dear," said Aziraphale, a mite testily, "we're in the midst of Armageddon, so that isn't quite working out for anyone, is it? And I was discorporated months ago, obviously. I'd rather not talk about it, but they gave me this body about a few weeks ago. Haven't even gotten used to it, and they spring the End on us."

Crowley swerved the angel's blade, trapping it with his own, and tried not to laugh. "But Captain Jack Sparrow? He was a bloody pirate."

"And a good man," replied Aziraphale. The demon ducked to avoid scorching from his flaming sword.

"Right. And the tutu is just for... what? Decoration? Personal preference?"

White fire came within inches of his face, but the demon managed to deflect it. "Well," Aziraphale began, as though they weren't in the middle of a fight to the death but, rather, having tea, "it seems the Captain got into a bit of a scrap known as 'the Cake Strangling Incident of 1802,' right before his death. The event is still fairly legendary, but the Department of Corporeal Affairs were running out of bodies. The tutu, dear boy, is a disguise."

With a flick of his sword he knocked Crowley's out of his grip; the demon watched in abject horror as the flame approached his face. This was it: death. Actual, no-coming-back death -- and at the hands of the angel. He hadn't guessed that one. Sure he expected to die, and die by angelic forces. He just hadn't expected it would be this particular angel.

Deftly Aziraphale grazed the edge of Crowley's sunglasses with the flame, completely bypassing the demon's skin. The black shades dissolved immediately, melting off his face and disappearing. Crowley blinked in surprise.

"If you must die, my dear, die like a man." The angel pulled back the sword.

"That was not very nice."

Aziraphale flashed him a divine smile. "Sacrifices must be made," he replied calmly, and redoubled his grip.

Crowley grinned. "_Pirate_."

Then they were back-to-back, a tag team against the forces of good and evil. If they were to go they would go _together_, dammit.

(1) Crowley adored L.A. It was his type of place. Since moving, he had become rather close friends with a number of rock stars and the sorts of celebrities who are famous not for what they do but _who_, and he loved every minute of it.


End file.
